


pas de deux

by thinkofaugust



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Slow Dancing, Sophie goes through a million emotions in 4000 words and Fabien doesn't know what do to, but doesn't know what to do with them either!, he doesn't know what to do with women regardless tbh, he has feelings though, someone help him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 05:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13897737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkofaugust/pseuds/thinkofaugust
Summary: ‘So...you have never danced, Monsieur?’ She asked, trailing her fingertips over the table-top again.He furrowed his brow further. ‘...no.’Mademoiselle de Clermont pursed her lips, lost in thought. [...] ‘Then I should teach you!’In the early hours of the morning, Sophie comes looking for Fabien. She's had a little too much wine and has questions, and propositions, that Fabien cannot refuse. But, at least, he learns two things: footwork is key, and young women are stubborn.





	pas de deux

**Author's Note:**

> Three months of drafting and a cliche title later! In all honesty, I don't know what's going on here. There are as many emotions in this piece as I've felt while writing it, but...I was urged to finish it, so here it is. It's a week later, (of my self-imposed deadline) but ah well! Better late than never! In typical me fashion...it's very long...and gets nowhere
> 
> These two are surprisingly hard - and fun - to write, mostly because so much goes unsaid, but I tried my best. I wrote their relationship as platonic, but really only because I didn't think this was the time for romance. If you want to read it as such...I'm not going to stop you...Fabien would be a better husband for Sophie than Cassell, at least. (Protect Sophie, please.)
> 
> Enjoy! x

The hour was late. Fabien did not know how late exactly - his eyes, usually so apt, struggled to see the hands of his pocket-watch in the low candlelight - but it was close enough to dawn that he had not expected to hear a knock on his door. By that hour, even the most frivolous of the nobles were usually on their way back to their chambers -  if they had not already passed out in the corner of the ballroom or over a card table - and anyone summoning him would not be doing so unless something was gravely wrong. 

Fabien stiffened in his seat, set the papers he had been half-reading aside, and said. ‘Enter.’

The door swung open more abruptly than he had anticipated. Heels clattered on the stone floor, and, to his surprise, Fabien found himself suppressing a smile.

_ Sophie. _ Her name danced on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back. He may have adopted the role of her guardian - or something of that nature, perhaps - since her mother’s demise, but that did not make them familiar. It was presumptuous of him to think it did. Improper, even.

‘Mademoiselle de Clermont?’ Fabien said instead, sitting forward. ‘Is something wrong?’’

She blinked back at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then let out a laugh. 

It was, Fabien thought, the most terrifying sound he had ever heard. Never, in the many months he had known her, had he heard her laugh in his presence. Or even seen her smile. Not really. She had no reason to, he supposed. Her mother was dead. Her prospects were limited at best. She was little more than a prisoner, indebted to a life of servitude and secrets. He knew next to nothing of young women, but Fabien was well acquainted with prisoners. They did not laugh. Not unless they were unstable, or inebriated….or both.

He studied her warily for a moment. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her hair dishevelled, and her eyes, usually dark and uncertain, glistened in the dying candlelight. There was a tear in her right sleeve and the hem of the dress she had instructed him to buy her was muddied from a late night frolic in the gardens. She giggled again. He could smell the alcohol on her breath from where he sat. Inebriation, then.

He frowned, brow furrowing in annoyance. Or perhaps it was in disappointment. He wondered if her mother would have been ashamed, then remembered her mother was far from a shameful woman.

‘Wrong?’ Mademoiselle de Clermont echoed in a curious tone he would have found irritating from anyone else. Her smile was too wide. ‘Nothing is wrong.’

Fabien had never been an indirect man. Niceties and rules of etiquette were for noblemen. He could wear it no easier than he could the ridiculous lace cuffs they had all taken a liking to. They were impractical; Fabien was not. If anything, he was too logical.  

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I...was in the gardens,’ She replied, glancing down at her skirts, ‘you probably guessed that, but then I realised I have not seen you this week. Then I wondered if  _ anyone _ had seen you, and...here I am.’

He started. It seemed she had learnt a thing or two under his tutelage, and her days of bashfully lowering her gaze and mumbling a reply were long gone. Or perhaps it was the alcohol that made her reckless. It must have been that. She would not have said such a thing if she was in a right state of mind. Surely? True, he had not called on her this week. It was only Tuesday night, after all. And true, no-one had come to see him either. But they never did. They kept their distance for a reason, and to save his pride, he had adapted to pushing them away. 

‘Mademoiselle de Clermont,’ he said slowly, shaking away the feeling of familiarity again, ‘I am not your friend.’

Silence.

He pressed further. ‘If you are looking for someone to...humour you, I suggest you go back to the Salons and seek companionship there. Although, I imagine anyone of reputable standing has already retired to bed, which would also be a wise destination.’

She merely tilted her head in reply.

Another moment passed. In spite of his suggestion, she did not leave. He did not ask her too. They blinked back at each other, neither willing to break the silence first. Eventually, like an inquisitive cat searching for its' prey, she let herself look around the room. It was small, ordinary, and she had seen it at least a hundred times in the course of her employment, but she almost seemed to see it with fresh eyes tonight. That was probably also an effect of the alcohol. She glanced back at him, hesitant, then took a step closer. Her movements were slow and a little unsteady as she wobbled on her heels. Fabien almost reached across the table to steady her. He limited himself to merely raising a questioning eyebrow, but her attention was already elsewhere. 

Slowly, she began perusing the contents of his desk, her slender, ungloved fingertips ghosting across the coarse wood. She must have lost her gloves somewhere in the gardens; he wondered if she would find them under the orange trees come morning - she liked the orange trees -  and if he had paid for them too. Then realised that he did not really care. It was not his business what she did with her belongings any more than it was her responsibility to check on him. And yet...here she was.

Her earlier giddiness subdued, Mademoiselle de Clermont examined the stacks of papers, inkwell, and quill as intently as if they had been jewels she proposed to buy. Fabien let her. He was not sure why. Any other night, he would snatch the papers away, hurriedly hide such important matters of security under the table, and banish her from his sight for such insolence. But not tonight. Perhaps it was because she was so clearly intoxicated that he doubted she could resist temptation if she tried. Or perhaps it was because he saw something cold and analytical - something that reminded him of himself, even when intoxicated - in her dark eyes as she picked up his quill, felt the weight of it in her hand, and set it back down again.

Satisfied with her findings, she turned her gaze on him, warmer, but no less curious. ‘Where did you learn to write?’

_ Where did you learn to write?  _ He repeated the question in his mind a few times. There was, as far as he could tell, no reason why she should ask such a thing and yet, Fabien found himself answering. ‘My schoolmaster taught me the basics, but it was my father, mostly.’

‘And was it your father who taught you how to…’ She trailed off, forehead creasing in thought, and then gestured flippantly at their surroundings, ‘to...to do  _ this _ .’

He tensed again. There was definitely no reason for her to be asking that. There was no doubt that she knew the extent of his services to the King, he had, after all, been performing them when he had executed her mother, but they had never spoken of it. She had, thankfully,  never asked about her mother’s final moments. He would not have told her if she had. Just as he would not tell her this.

Instead, he turned the question on her; it was a tactic he used in interrogations, and it never failed. ‘Where did _ you  _ learn to write?’

‘My mother,’ she said. ‘And my governess; she taught me most things, reading, writing, sewing, dancing.’

‘Dancing?’

She nodded. Another strand of hair fell loose. She did not seem to notice it. 

Fabien stared back at her in silence. He supposed there must have been a question in his eyes because, no more than a moment later, she supplied an explanation.

‘All ladies must know how to dance if they are to find a husband.’ 

Mademoiselle de Clermont, he had slowly begun to realise, always talked of such things - marriage, prospects, husbands - as though they were nothing more than lines she had been taught to recite, probably by her governess. Or by her mother. They were her own personal catechisms, the sacred rules of femininity. It would have been endearing, if he thought she believed a word of it. 

It was becoming increasingly apparent that she was not going to leave on her own accord, and realising he had no desire to force her, Fabien decided to do the one thing he had said he would not. He humoured her.  ‘And how would dancing help one attract a husband?’

The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement. ‘Well, you would catch his eye at a ball, of course!’

Of course _.  _ He sat back, raising an eyebrow in way of reply, but Mademoiselle de Clermont still had questions of her own.

‘Have you ever been to a ball?’

Fabien thought this over for a moment. ‘Only when my position requires it, in order to ensure his Majesty’s safety.’

‘But...never as a guest?’ 

‘No,’ Fabien replied, secretly perplexed. He could still see no reason for her to show such interest in his personal life, but, for reasons he also did not understand, he continued to reply.

‘So...you have never danced, Monsieur?’ She asked, trailing her fingertips over the table-top again.

He furrowed his brow further. ‘...no.’

Mademoiselle de Clermont pursed her lips, lost in thought. A moment passed. Fabien saw her eyes light up, filled with a stubborn determination.The image of her mother, in a red dress, head tilted to one side, as she questioned him in ways Fabien Marchal did not usually let himself be questioned, flitted through his mind. Her daughter's queries were far more innocent in nature, but the sensation was similar enough that he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could feel his heart beating through his shirt, the sound almost as distinct to him as the clattering of her heels against the stone floor.

Before he could stop her, Mademoiselle de Clermont had moved to stand beside him. ‘Then I should teach you!’

‘To...dance?’ 

For years, Fabien had wondered what it would feel like to be one of his prisoners, cowering under a persistent gaze, helpless to do anything but echo the words spoken to him. He had never imagined it would feel like this. Or that such a feeling would be caused by a young woman, nevermind one demanding that he rose to his feet and let her teach him how to dance like a nobleman.

She nodded enthusiastically. The last few strands of her hair surrendered, falling down around her face. ‘Yes! You taught me what you know, your domain. I can teach you mine.’

He cleared his throat. ‘I...I really do not see what use dancing would be to me-’

‘Well, you won’t know until you try!’

That was an incredibly simplistic view; he imagined her mother had said the same thing to her to her a hundred and one times. ‘Mademoiselle-’

‘Come! Please!’

‘Mademoiselle, it is...it is hardly proper...’

‘And since when have you cared about proprietary? You are  _ Monsieur Marchal _ , you do not care what anyone thinks!’

If only she knew. If only  _ any  _ of them knew. It was not that he did not care. He  _ could not _ care. It was not his fault that Mademoiselle de Clermont was too young to understand that; he should not have to teach her not to pry. That was a mother’s task; her mother lacked a head.

She reached a hand out and tugged impatiently on his sleeve. ‘Please!'

She had never touched him before. No-one touched him. Ever. Fabien jolted. He gripped the chair arm forcefully, knuckles whitening. A chill ran down his spine. Shock made his voice sharper than he had expected. ‘Sophie! Enough!’

As startled as he was, she flinched, stumbling backwards as if he had slapped her. Instantly, the rosy flush drained from her cheeks, and, although Fabien could tell she was trying to hide it, her lower lip wobbled. The shock faded as quickly as it had appeared, only to be replaced by guilt. It was unlike anything he had ever known. He swallowed, forced himself to breathe, and sat back in the chair in an unsuccessful to dissolve the sudden tension between them. The silence between them was tenser than ever. Fabien could hear his own breathing. Mademoiselle de Clermont kept her eyes on the muddied toes of her shoes.

‘Forgive me, Monsieur,’ she murmured eventually with an unsteady curtsy, lower lip still trembling. ‘I should not have...I will...leave you. Goodnight.’

Without waiting for his reply, she turned towards the door. Her footsteps were lighter than they had been when she entered, as though she was afraid that even the slightest noise would enrage him again.

Guilt seized him. He should have controlled his temper. It had always been fiery and unpredictable, but years of practice had taught him how to hold his tongue. Tonight was different. She had made it different. But it was not her fault he had grown so accustomed to the solitude that even the slightest touch all but sent him into a state of shock. He should not have taken it out on her. Nor should he berate her for prying into his personal life.  It was, after all, what he had taught her to do. And she was skilled at it. She could pass unseen, hear things people had not intended her to. Fabien wanted to say it was all his teaching, but, in truth, there was something innate in her, a gentleness that was so unthreatening that she could enter a room and no one would think twice. It was who she was. Sophie. Sweet, naive, orphaned Sophie.

He sighed, ran a hand over his face slowly, and called her back. ‘Mademoiselle.’

She turned in the doorway, eyes wide and hesitant. ‘Yes, Monsieur?’

The formality felt odd. He should not have used her name. Names changed things. Fabien cleared his throat. ‘I feel I should apologise too. I should not have...raised my voice at you. It was...not my intention to...frighten you. Not that you are frightened, of course, but...I meant no harm.’

‘Oh,’ She murmured awkwardly, her voice barely above a whisper. A blush spread across her cheeks and Fabien suspected his complexion was just as bad.  ‘I….should not have...pressed you.’

‘You meant no harm either, I am certain.’

‘No, no harm.’ She echoed.

No more than a few minutes had passed since she had laid her hand on his arm, but the atmosphere between them had changed drastically. The childish glee in her eyes had been replaced by a wariness Fabien was all too accustomed to and it stung as if it had been a knife’s point. He would have much preferred that kind of wound. At least he knew how to remedy that. This nagging guilt was another matter entirely. If he had had a flavour for the dramatics - as the Chevalier de Lorraine did, often at Fabien’s expense - he would have sworn the discomfort could kill him. But he did not. And it would not. That did not make it easy.  He was trying to think of ways to break the tension when Mademoiselle de Clermont did it for him.

‘I shall leave you then. Sleep well, Monsieur...when you sleep.'

She made to leave again, but Fabien called her back before she could take a step.

‘Mademoiselle? You can...will you show me?’ he asked, surprising himself.  

‘Show you?’

He stood, smoothing the fabric of his shirt down in an attempt to calm his sudden nerves. He would regret this.  But his conscience, or what was left of it anyway, could not let her leave like this. ‘How to dance, I mean.’

Her eyes lit up again. ‘Really?’

He nodded stiffly. 

The smile that spread across her face made his heart clench in a way he had not experienced for a very long time. It was pure and hopeful, and no doubt intensified by the alcohol running through her veins. 

‘Alright!’ She chirped, suddenly giddy again, ‘I...I shall!’

Fabien nodded. He swallowed thickly and watched her like a hawk.

Mademoiselle de Clermont took a tentative step forward.

He stepped back

Her smile faltered. ‘Monsieur, we...we have to...hold hands.’

Fabien stiffened as she reached out across the space between them. Her fingertips hesitantly brushed against the edge of his cuff and, forcing himself to take a slow, steady breath, Fabien grasped her fingers tightly. ‘Like this?’

‘...yes.’

Earlier, spurred on by a momentary panic, he had not registered anything beyond the fact that she was touching him. Now, he realised just how cold her hands were. He considered lighting a fire, or berating her for losing her gloves in the first place; she interrupted him before the words could leave his lips.  

‘Dancing is quite simple,’ She said, lifting her head slightly. ‘Once you get the basics.’

‘Most things are.’

‘Yes, I suppose they are. Even things like…’ She gestured at their surroundings again, not quite willing to name it.

Fabien all but grunted in reply. If she would not say it, - torture - neither would he. Instead, he gestured for her to continue.

Mademoiselle de Clermont managed a tentative smile. ‘Well, first of all, you start on that side of the room…’

The minutes passed slowly and, despite his initial reluctance, Fabien found himself listening to and following her instructions obediently. In truth, he had not known there were so many rules to dancing. It was no wonder the nobles were plagued with such violent tendencies lately; even their relaxation came with a set of requirements. Step here. Turn there. Join hands. Release. It was, he realised with some curiosity, a little like sword-fighting. He had never doubted how beneficial her position could be to his work, but, he supposed, he was beginning to respect it more. There was more to being a courtier than extravagant parties, lavish dinners, and expensive gowns. There was an art to it, and she was as skilled at her role as he was at his own. His earlier feelings of annoyance and guilt had faded, morphing, instead, into a feeling of pride he could not explain. Nor did he want to. He pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand. They had been slowly making their way up and down the length of his room, their movements slow and hesitant, for fifteen minutes when Mademoiselle de Clermont suddenly pulled her hand free.

‘No, no!’ She exclaimed with such fervour that Fabien tensed again, ‘I have been teaching it wrong, we are not supposed to be touching here.’

Fabien looked down at his hand, then back at her. ‘We are not?’

She shook her head, biting her lip in frustration as she carefully repeated the series of steps she had just taught him, ‘I think the footwork is wrong too. The footwork is key...Maman always said that the footwork was…i-it...was...’ 

Her voice trailed off.  Instantly, Fabien stiffened. It was the first time she had mentioned her mother for a long time and they both knew it. He tore his gaze away, afraid of seeing sorrow flicker across her face. He could stomach fear. But not sorrow. Not when it was her. He did not know why.

His inability to mimic her graceful steps had partly relieved the tension between them, but the air now felt thick with unanswered questions. A moment passed. Once again, Mademoiselle de Clermont broke the silence.

‘It...it  _ is  _ imperative..’ She said with a confidence Fabien was not certain she felt. Her next words confirmed his suspicions. ‘You will never get anywhere if....never get anywhere…’

Slowly, Fabien turned his gaze on her again. There was a sadness in her eyes, no longer masked by the tell-tale glimmer of intoxication, and Fabien suddenly realised how many times he had ignored the tears dampening her lower lashes. In his defence, she did too, brushing them away as quickly as one might wipe poison from one’s lips. Tonight was different. She did not dry her eyes on the fabric of her gloves. She was not wearing gloves. She did not need them now. Her fingers were still warm from his touch, and yet, she did not move. One tear spilt over, followed by another, and before either of them could prevent it, her cheeks were wet with emotion. 

Fabien had more experience with crying women than he did with women who laughed. He was still ill-equipped for this situation. 

‘Mademoiselle…’ he started gruffly, then changed his mind. He gritted his teeth together, conflicted, then murmured, ‘...Sophie…’

She looked up at him, lips parted slightly in surprise. His earlier feelings of regret returned tenfold. He should not use her name. He should not presume such familiarity. And yet, it was becoming a habit. And yet, she clearly needed it. Her lack of composure - whether that be due to intoxication or emotion - was proof of that.

She opened her mouth to speak. Her lower lip trembled. She closed it again, shaking her head in frustration. ‘Forgive me...I…I do not know what has come over me...foolish, childish things, no doubt.’

Fabien took a step forward. He supposed her mother would have held her close. A friend might have clasped her hand. Fabien was neither. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back, and said. ‘Footwork is imperative when it comes to dancing, yes?’

Mademoiselle de Clermont hesitated, then nodded once.

‘It is the sign of a good dancer?’

Another nod.

He exhaled slowly. ‘Very well. Check mine.’

A nervous laugh escaped her mouth. ‘What?’

‘You wanted to teach me to dance?’

‘Yes?’

Well...if I am going to dance, I will do it well; I do not make a habit of doing things badly.’

To his relief, - and then surprise at the extremity of that relief - the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile. She rubbed her eyes, wiping the tears away. Before they could form again, Fabien took another step forward, slipping into the routine she had taught him with more ease than he ever could have expected. Mademoiselle de Clermont watched him, eyes trained on his movement intently. It was unnerving. Embarrassing, even. Fabien was not used to being watched. His cheeks felt hot. He was glad there was no looking-glass in this room. He did not think he could bear to see himself performing the role of a nobleman. The King would have likely dismissed him on the spot. But, he reasoned with himself as he tried to remember whether or not he was supposed to end on the left or the right foot, at least she had stopped crying.

Five minutes passed slowly as he methodically worked through the steps. Eventually, he came to a standstill, hands folded awkwardly behind his back, and glanced over at her to find she had moved to sit in his chair. Her skirts had billowed around her, creating a nest of peach fabric for her to settle into. And settle she had. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her head was lolling to one side, and, far from critiquing his footwork, she appeared to have fallen asleep. Fabien stared at her, uncertain what to do next. Part of him wanted to wake her and demand that she give him her approval. Dancing was, after all, her idea in the first place. But that felt too much like begging, and Fabien Marchal did not beg. He figured he would have to rouse her anyway. She could not stay here. He breathed a sigh, wondering if it would be improper to shake her into consciousness when a frantic knock sounded on the door.

Uncharacteristically on edge, he turned on his heel. He glanced at Mademoiselle de Clermont, then back at the door uncertainty.The knock came again. He tugged at the hem of his shirt awkwardly and, feeling as though he had been caught in the act of embarrassing himself, Fabien opened the door.  A young man blinked back at him, eyes wide and full of urgency. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, carefully trying to block the young man’s view into the room. The last thing Mademoiselle de Clermont needed was young men - a musician, Fabien thought - spreading inappropriate rumours about her. She had worked too hard to preserve her chastity, and with a fierce protectiveness, he did not know he could feel, Fabien decided he was not going to let too much alcohol and an impromptu dance lesson ruin that.

The young man did not even seem to notice. ‘Monsieur Marchal,’ he started. ‘My sincere apologies for disturbing you at such an hour, but-’

‘What is it?’ Fabien interrupted flatly. 

Shrinking under the weight of Fabien’s glare, he stammered. ‘There has been a...a disturbance. Two of the noblemen, I do not know which...there was a disagreement, it escalated, and...and they drew swords. The Duc d’Cassel asked me to find you and-’

‘And do what exactly?’

‘Blood has been spilt. It was a matter of honour but-’

‘The culprits must be disciplined.’ Fabien finished, suppressing a sigh. He had better things to do tonight than chastise drunken noblemen. Dancing not included.

Flushing in embarrassment, the young man nodded.

Fabien frowned but hummed lowly in agreement. ‘A moment then.’

Another nod.

Closing the door to, he habitually reached for his coat, then paused. He caught a glimpse of Mademoiselle de Clermont - Sophie - still fast asleep in his chair. Her dark lashes fluttered dreamily against her cheek, and Fabien felt a sudden rush of compassion. Unnerved, he snatched his coat from the hook, grasping the fabric in his fist. A moment passed. Sophie mumbled in her sleep. Fabien glanced back at the door, all too aware of the nervous youth awaiting his arrival on the other side, and took a step towards her. Before he could stop himself,  he stooped and laid his coat over her. Her eyelashes fluttered again. Fabien felt his breath catch in his throat. He released the fabric, then bent again to tuck it around her shoulders. Instinctively, she burrowed into it, seemingly as content as a kitten who had found a warm blanket, and no more likely to wake up than said kitten.

‘You can stay until I return.’ He said lowly, more to himself than anyone else. ‘And not a moment longer.’

The only reply was the sound of her breathing, slow, heavy, and more content than he thought possible for a young woman who had lost everything but her life. He supposed, for people like them, that was all that mattered. He believed that about as much as Mademoiselle de Clermont believed dancing would bring her a husband. They both had their parts to play. And they did so exceptionally.

A soft smile tugged at the mouth. He forced himself to turn away, pulling the door open again. The young man shifted awkwardly. He could not have been much older than Mademoiselle de Clermont, and yet the weariness in his eyes told of a man twice of his age. This place would destroy their youth; clearly it had already taken their innocence.

‘Lead the way, Monsieur.’ Fabien said, smile vanishing instantly.

The man nodded, already hurrying down the corridor. They walked in silence for a few minutes, passing through the empty hallways. In a matter of hours, they would be overflowing with people. They would gossip, and plot, and drink, desperately trying to forget the sins they had committed the night before. Then the sun would set again. And they would repeat the cycle, throwing their heads back in an act of forced laughter, in what Fabien was beginning to suspect was a dance to the death. 

Something like pity grasped at him. Not for the nobles. They brought this on themselves. They  _wanted_ too much. But for Sophie. Poor, innocent, Sophie, who was caught in this game of to and fro.  Suddenly, he understood his earlier feelings of guilt. Her mother had brought her into this life; Fabien, in what he supposed had been a feeble attempt to set things right with Beatrice’s spirit,  had trapped her there.

He spared a glance at the young man. ‘You are a musician, are you not?’

The youth was so focused on where he was going that he stumbled slightly. ‘Y-yes, Monsieur. Viols, mostly.’

‘And…’ He cleared his throat,  ‘...and do you know anything about dancing?’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
